Some New Ink
by Lynn Larsh
Summary: While wandering around London, on leave and drunk off their asses, John and his mates decide to get some tattoos at the famous 221B Tattoo Parlor.
1. Chapter 1

John felt Collin's arm drop around his shoulder on a two second delay, the man's weight heavy and dragging and making them both stumble. Well, more so than they already had been. Seven pints in was a bit much considering the amount of drinking-or lack thereof-they'd done in the six months of their deployment; John himself had maybe had a half a beer from a six pack somebody'd gotten in a care package, but little else. Still, no one seemed ready to quit, so John did what any good mate would do and kept taking long pulls from his bottle as the ground swayed beneath his feet.

"Where the bloody hell are we?" John heard Samson call out from where he'd fallen behind to light himself another fag. Collin shrugged against John's shoulders despite the fact that no one could see him, something John found funny enough to strangle his response in a fit of probably embarrassing giggles.

"Baker Street, I think?" John managed eventually, shifting to keep Collin walking on his own two feet. Mostly. "I thought I saw a sign back… Somewhere."

"Wait, wait, hang on," Bill, who up to this point had been wandering aimlessly about a half a block ahead of them all, stopped to examine their surroundings with an over-exaggerated focus. John pulled Collin to a halt as well, letting Samson catch up just in time for Bill to break out in a grin that should have made John nervous. Of course, it would take far more than one of Bill's infamous bad ideas to make John uneasy after seven pints and six months in Afghanistan. "This is Baker Street," Bill announced.

"That's what I said, yeah," John rolled his eyes, knocking back the last of his beer and chucking it into the conveniently placed rubbish bin to his left. He considered it a personal victory that it only bounced against the rim once, what with Collin and seven pints substantially affecting his aim.

"No, no," Bill simultaneously waved a hand in front of his face and jogged up to meet the group, looking a bit like he was going to stumble over himself in the process. Instead, he just barreled into John and Collin, using a shoulder each to steady himself before speaking, words just barely this side of slurred. "That's not- It's not about the street, you tit. It's about the _street._" He was grinning like a mad man, despite what John assumed was a look of confusion on his own face. Collin sagged a bit in his arms, groaning out something that sounded equally as puzzled, but Bill either didn't notice or didn't care. Probably both. "We should get tattoos!" He continued on as if the progression made perfect sense to everybody.

"Not following, mate," Samson coughed through the last drag of his cigarette, flicking the bud into the street. Bill practically gaped at him.

"Baker Street!" Bill repeated, holding his arms out for emphasis. It didn't help. "221B?" When no one showed any signs of recognition, Bill clapped John hard on the shoulder and threw his hands up in complete and total resignation. "How can you lot not know about 221B?"

"I'm guessing it's a… tattoo parlor?" John smirked, trying rather unsuccessfully not to break into a fresh fit of laughter.

Bill held up a finger a bit too close to John's face. "Not just _any_ tattoo parlor, mate. The most prestigious tattoo parlor in London! Or something. Rumor has it the artist can guess what you're coming in for just by looking at you."

"I don't buy it," Samson scoffed, already holding another cigarette between his lips.

"I'm serious," Bill turned to look up and down the street, presumably for said tattoo parlor. "Jules says he was a bit of an arse about it too. But, fuck, if he wasn't spot on. You should check out Jules' back. Like a fuckin' Picasso paint-Oh! There it is!" Bill pointed down the street a ways before turning abruptly back to the three of them, beaming. "Come on. We have to get one while we're here. When are we gonna get another chance, right? Mark the occasion, make memories and all that!" He wrapped an arm around Samson's shoulders and placed a hand on the back of Collin's neck, shaking the both of them, and by association John. "We could all get matching tiger claws or something!"

"Fuck that," Collin scoffed from under John's arm, straightening up some but still leaning rather heavily into John's side. John debated choosing that moment to shrug out from underneath the half embrace, but he was still coherent enough to know it was much easier to maneuver a drunken but vertical twenty-two year old, than one on the floor. "If I'm getting a tattoo it's the words, "Fuck You," across my arm. Right… Right here," he tried to point to the assigned bicep regardless of the fact that John's head seemed to be getting in the way.

John swatted at his hand, but his annoyed, "Oi," went completely unnoticed.

"So you're in?" Bill grinned even wider, if that were possible, looking from Collin-who shrugged again-to Samson-who offered a noncommittal, "Sure, whatever,"-and finally, to John. Waiting, hopeful. And bloody pathetic enough that John caved with surprisingly little resistance.

"Yeah, alright. Fine." John shook his head, smiling despite himself. He'd always toyed with the idea of getting one, and doing so while on leave _did_ seem like the perfect opportunity. In fact, if he was being honest with himself, he even sort of had one in mind…

"You lot coming or not?" Bill's voice drifted over to John from considerably farther away than before. Though when he'd sprinted the rest of the way to the shoppe, John couldn't really say. He blinked a few times, slowly feeling the last of the seventh pint settle into his system like a warning.

"I'm pretty sure none of us are sober enough to be making these sorts of decisions," John stated half-heartedly once he'd managed to drag Collin up to the steps of 221B. Samson lifted Collin's free arm around his shoulder to help, the two of them easing their way through the door with only minor difficulty.

Bill just continued to grin. Bastard was probably the happiest drunk John had ever seen. "The more plastered you are, the less it hurts, Johnny. Now come on! In you get!"

The door closed behind them with a slam, Samson depositing Collin in a chair near the entrance while the rest of them took a look around.

The first thing John noticed was the distinct drill-like sound of a needle going, although it looked as though no one was around. The second was the walls. Stretching across every inch of wall space were various types of pictures, from charcoal to ink to pencil sketches on paper, cardboard, envelopes, even a few drawings that looked to be done on the walls themselves. It looked almost reminiscent of a scene from a murder mystery; the only thing lacking was a bit of red string tying this picture to that picture from victim to witness to killer.

But it was more than just the chaos of it all that grabbed John's attention. The pictures themselves were bloody _gorgeous_, and spanning across all manner of artistic styles. There were quick sketches of tribal art, full portraits, Van Gogh-esque water color scenes, some rather morbid cartoons. There was even a giant, yellow smiley face spray painted over a patch of wallpaper. It was breathtaking, if a bit overwhelming.

"Where is he?" Samson asked from the entryway, still standing next to Collin, an elbow resting none too gently on his head. Collin didn't seem to care, though by the faraway, glazed-over look in his eyes, John was pretty sure he was far beyond caring about anything at this point.

"I'm surprised he's even still open," John heard Bill answer from the other end of the studio where he stood admiring the wall of colored inks and tattooing instruments. "It _is_ nearly past three in the morning."

"Think he's asleep?" Collin asked in a barely intelligible mumble,

"Sleep is boring," a voice-a deep baritone that John's alcohol laden mind involuntarily translated as rich and sultry-interjected from somewhere out of their line of sight. John took a surprised step back from where he'd been standing awfully close to a shaded, charcoal drawing of a man wearing fishnets and heels. He recognized the image from some American cult classic, but a blush rushed to his cheeks none-the-less. A blush which only deepened when the owner of the voice chose that moment to stroll out of a side room and into the main parlor. "I try to avoid it when I can."

He stood a good head taller than John, a mess of dark, almost inky black curls hanging just this side of intentional across his forehead. His eyes were blue-grey and piercing, flicking across the group of them like a scientist would a detailed equation. He rolled his sleeves up as he walked, revealing an exquisite and detailed expanse of tattooed skin which John found himself eagerly wishing he could get a closer look at. It was a perfect contrast to the buttoned-up dress shirt and trousers that made him seem otherwise posh.

As quickly as the artist's gaze had settled on the lot of them, John watched him roll his eyes in annoyance, a look which brought to John's attention just how young the man really was. Couldn't have been more than nineteen, maybe twenty tops, and he was running his own tattoo parlor?

"Oh, dull," The artist huffed. "Recently on leave from Iraq, or Afghanistan, is it? At least you're not tedious enough to be asking me for matching tattoos. But honestly." He looked at Collin chidingly. "An expletive along your upper left bicep? Crass and unimaginative, not to mention stereotypical, but if you allow me liberties with the font, then fine." He moved on, looking at Bill now, though John was equally as mesmerized. "And while I'm not surprised, at least yours will allow for more artistic license." He placed a finger to the right side of his chest and drew a line in a diagonal to the center of his sternum. "Claw marks, bear or tiger, you don't seem to care, raked across your right pectoral. I'll allow it, but only in color. If I'm going to be forced to render an over played image of idealized masculinity, I'm doing it in blatant and morbid realism. Now you," he turned to Samson next, who was glaring defensively, arms crossed tight over his chest. John could already tell he was going to be stubborn about this, possibly even storm out. The artist didn't seem fazed. "Regardless of what I say you want, you're going to deny it, so there's no point in even bothering with you."

Finally he turned his attention to John, eyes raking over him like a physical presence. "And then there's yours." His gaze captured John's for barely a moment before he was turning away, as if the whole ordeal bored him. "The name of a family member between your shoulder blades, possibly accompanied by some sort of memento-a rugby ball perhaps-out of sight but present so most likely the relative is deceased. All tedious and wrought with sentiment, mind you, but if you give me artistic liberty with the rendering I'll-"

"Actually," John jumped in, despite the fact that his head was spinning with the man's deductions. The artist stopped, turning back to John and raising an eyebrow in surprised confusion. For a moment, John allowed himself to be slightly pleased at catching the obviously arrogant bastard off guard, even contemplated keeping the near-accuracy of the man's assumption to himself. But John was as amazed as he was smug, so he explained. "I'd been considering that for a while, actually, pretty much down to the letter. My father's name between my shoulder blades and everything. But that's not what I want."

The artist looked borderline horrified now, taking a step closer to John and all but examining him like a slide under a microscope, even going so far as to circle him multiple times, hands clasped prayer-like beneath his chin. After a few awkward moments of pacing and silence, he stopped, letting his hands fall to his side as he opened his mouth to speak.

Which was the exact moment that Bill chose to chime in.

"Well he hit the nail on the head with mine, so you'll just have to go last, Johnny," he said, the sound of his voice yanking John back to the present, and alerting him to his and the artist's sudden proximity. John took a step back out of reflex, the artist raising an eyebrow at him again, only this time with a hint of amusement tugging just barely at the corner of his mouth. "So," Bill went on, walking up to the two of them and clapping his hands. "Where do you want me?"

The artists rolled his eyes again and motioned for them all to follow, leading Bill, John, and eventually Collin, into the back room he'd been in when they arrived. John wasn't surprised when Samson didn't join them.

Without preamble, Bill settled himself on the table in the center of the room and Collin sat himself down on a seat in the corner, which left John free to look around a bit.

The room wasn't large, but it was spacious enough for the four of them and substantially less cluttered than the giant collage that was the front room. Shelving units spanned one full wall, lined with numerous bottles of ink-all organized by what seemed to be a rather complicated color spectrum-and a variety of tattooing equipment. A few pictures hung in frames on the remaining wall space, though none like what John had seen outside. Instead, there was a periodic table, a portrait of the Queen, an old and faded map of some sort burnt to crumbling at the edges and dotted with scorch marks, a long scroll written all in Japanese, and a certificate which John assumed was proof of the artist's legal right to charge them for sticking needles and ink into their skin.

There was also what appeared to be a ram's skull wearing headphones hanging over a desk on the far wall, but as obscure and amusing as that was, John found himself drawn back to the certificate. More specifically, the name typed across the center of it.

_Sherlock Holmes._

"Is that your real name?" John heard himself ask, mentally berating himself at once for how rude that must have sounded. But instead of the defensiveness he'd expected, all the artist did was laugh softly, a low rumble of sound that settled strangely in the center of John's chest.

"That's what my birth certificate tells me," Sherlock said, and despite the slight chuckle from two seconds ago, when John turned back in his direction, he looked about as bored as before.

"Sorry," John cleared his throat. "I didn't know if that was, like, your artist's name or- or something. Like a stage name." He could feel his face getting hotter and hotter the more he rambled, but he couldn't seem to stop. Bloody pints. "Do tattoo artist's even do that?"

Sherlock did look at him then, smirking full out now. "Not that I know of."

"Right," John shoved his hands in his pockets. "I'll just… Over here, then," he nodded, cursing silently to himself as he leaned back against the wall, out of the way. He'd never really considered himself the smoothest man in the world, but he'd never embarrassed himself that badly before, the seven pints notwithstanding. He opted for keeping his mouth shut until he sobered up a bit more, just in case, though a little voice in the back of his head was all but certain he'd just ruined everything.

Not that he knew what he'd "ruined" per say, but he'd have liked the option, whatever it would have been.

Watching Sherlock prepare was an art form in and of itself, the way he gathered his equipment and lined up the colors in various cups along the desk next to the table. His hands moved with a certainty born from repetition and a fluidity that could only have been natural. He moved about the room with a surprising amount of grace, his hands adjusting and prepping the equipment like those of a scientist. It was damn near mesmerizing. And when he was finally ready, it seemed, John couldn't wait to see what those hands and that grace, not to mention his talent, would be able to create.

Bill, however, seemed a bit less enthralled, especially when Sherlock started the drill.

"Wait," Bill said suddenly, holding up a hand and scrambling to sit up, his bare back sticking for a moment to the leather of the table. "You're not gonna sketch it first or something? Like with a marker, to make sure you don't mess up?"

John had to stop himself from laughing at the look of genuine exasperation that crossed Sherlock's face. In lieu of answering, Sherlock pointed instead at a sign hanging above the door, one that John hadn't noticed before. The words were written in an elegant, curling script, but were still as clear as day:

_Artist reserves the right to refuse services to any and all idiots._

John couldn't hold back then, clutching his stomach and bending forward with the burst of laughter, which only grew as Bill mumbled something in his defense and Collin snorted his own amusement at him. It was the sound of Sherlock chuckling softly to himself that kept John going, though, even once Bill had crossed his arms over his chest and laid back down in a huff.

"Yeah fine, sod the lot of you then," He spat. "Do it freehand, but I'm not paying you shit if you fuck up my chest."

"I don't 'fuck up,'" Sherlock scoffed, starting up the needle again. "And I don't do this just for payment. I do it for the work. You should take solace in that."

"Yeah, I'll fucking try," Bill groaned, biting hard onto the heel of his hand when the needle made first contact with his skin. John hissed in sympathy, though a part of him was suddenly keen for his turn, eager to see exactly how much it hurt. By the way Bill was trying desperately not to move, it looked like a lot. John tried not to think about just how much that excited him.

Sherlock was as precise and elegant tattooing as he had been in his preparations, a design of impressive standards slowly beginning to take form across Bill's chest. It was so impressive, in fact, that John barely registered the passage of time, as distracted as he was by the steadily evolving art, not to mention he artist himself. It took Samson's voice calling out from the main room-something about leaving the lot of them to go have another smoke-for John to realize a full hour had passed. And aside from his initial bought of rambling, an hour of complete silence at that.

Swallowing back the uncharacteristic self-consciousness, John decided to break it. "I'm surprised you decided to take us so late. And despite being pissed at that."

"What you decide to do to your bodies, and what state you decide to be in while doing so, is your prerogative," Sherlock said matter-of-factly without looking up from Bill's chest. He was adding some shading in a deep red to one of the claw marks; it was really starting to look more and more realistic as time went on. "Like I said," Sherlock continued, stopping the needle for a moment, the second or two of silence almost overwhelming in comparison. And the way Sherlock looked up at him, grey-blue eyes locking on John's like a vice, even more so. "All that matters is the work."

"Right," John swallowed, licking his lips reflexively as he forced himself to look away, though not before noticing Sherlock's gaze drift down to watch. "You did say that, yeah."

Sherlock started up the needle again, the sound a relief in comparison to the awkward and tense attempts at forgone conversation. It also reminded John of something.

"I heard the needle going when we came in," He started before he could stop himself. "Were you working on someone else?" He didn't see another exit around the shop, but the only other option was-

"Touching up some designs on my arm, actually," Sherlock shattered his train of thought, alerting John to the fact that, while he couldn't get a truly proper look, he was finally close enough to at least casually examine Sherlock's many tattoos. Well, the ones not covered by his rather expensive-looking, form-fitting clothes. As if to punctuate John's thoughts, Sherlock held out one of his arms in John's direction, though his other hand kept working with the needle and his focus stayed pinned to Bill's tattoo. John took a step closer, leaning over some to get a better look.

It was absolutely stunning, a proper tattoo sleeve with barely any remaining original skin, all the pictures and patterns and letterings perfectly interwoven despite the varying styles and designs. Though he couldn't see the whole thing-and he desperately wanted to-he caught glimpses of what looked like a violin and sheet music, a skull, an old fashioned pipe, and a diagram of a man that looked a bit like Da Vinci's Vitruvian Man. The more he noticed, the more he wondered about the twenty year old tattoo artist, what sort of person he was, how he'd come to own his own shoppe so young, what sort of things he liked, hobbies he had. Tattoos could tell a lot about a person, but the more John saw, the more he felt like he needed to know.

"You did all these yourself?" John asked, surprised his voice was so even considering how awed he felt.

"All the ones I could easily reach," Sherlock replied, finally returning his arm to the table. "I had my mentor do my back before I left."

"Another tattoo artist?"

"One of the better ones, when he's not being unbearably sentimental about portraits of dead children and quotes about the trials and tribulations of life." Sherlock rolled his eyes hard enough for John to see it in his periphery. "His parlor is about twenty minutes north of here, a place called The Yard."

"Well he must have been talented to mentor someone like you," John offered, feeling the blush settle across his cheeks at the attempted flattery, even though it seemed to go unnoticed.

"I mainly went to him to learn the basics," Sherlock shrugged. "Picked it up in an hour or two, stayed with Lestrade for a few months to practice, then left." Sherlock turned just enough in John's direction to offer him a wink. "My talents are far superior to his." John felt something in his chest tighten. "And anyway," Sherlock looked back at Bill's tattoo, and so did John, the shading and most of the minor details already complete. "I only really decided to venture into tattooing because I was bored and needed a steady income to buy cocaine. Any artist would have sufficed."

John couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at that. Though a part of him felt like he shouldn't have been surprised. Owning a parlor, out on his own in the middle of London, at his age. His money had to be coming from somewhere, and the posh, rich types didn't usually send their kids off to be tattoo artists.

"So," John cleared his throat, trying not to be awkward. "Are you still-?"

Sherlock's brief, slightly sardonic sounding chuckle interrupted the rest of John's question. "Not recently, no. It was part of my arrangement with Lestrade. And I've found the work significantly distracting." This time when he looked at John from the corner of his eye, the gaze felt heavy, weighted. The next words to slip from his lips-full, fucking kissable, cupid-bow lips- _shit…-_felt somehow laced with intention. "Though not as distracting as other things."

All John could do was stare, heart pounding against his chest even after Sherlock finished the last of the detailing and put the needle to rest.

"Keep it moisturized and refrain from scratching as it heals," Sherlock explained, wiping the remaining ink off Bill's skin and bandaging the tattoo with surprisingly gentle hands. John felt a small, involuntary spike of jealousy at the sight. Sherlock handed Bill some ointment and pushed away from the table. "I don't do touchups for anything self-inflicted, including but not limited to your own stupidity."

Bill got to his feet, moving a bit slower than he had before. It seemed the pain and the lengthy sit down had sobered him up enough to take the edge of his manic excitement, though when he looked at his chest in the mirror, that same grin split his face.

"Damn, Johnny!" He exclaimed. "Look at it! Bloody amazing, yeah?" He ran careful fingers across the plastic wrap taped over the image, mouthing an impressed, "Wow."

John turned back to Sherlock, unable to help his own appreciative grin. "It really is amazing, Sherlock." A little thrill shot through him at saying the name aloud, which was only added to by the way Sherlock seemed to approve of the compliment.

"Thank you, John," Sherlock smiled, and that thrill from before multiplied ten fold at hearing his own name in the velvety baritone.

When he could finally get his words out at a normal timbre, John stuttered, "How did you-?"

"Simple," Sherlock's smile shifted back into what appeared to by his usual smirk. "He called you Johnny multiple times in my presence. You flinched just slightly each time, so a nickname you neither willingly chose nor entirely approve of. Therefor, John."

John smirked. "Could have been Jonathon."

"You don't look like a Jonathon."

John was strangely pleased by that.

"Your friend was meant to be next, but…" Sherlock trailed off, intentionally glancing over John's shoulder at Collin, now passed out in his chair.

"Bloody hell," John sighed, running his fingers through his hair. "We should probably get him out of here, then."

"Finally!" Samson offered his own exasperated sigh from where he'd abruptly appeared in the doorway. "You've made your memory, Bill, now can we please fucking go?"

"You could have just left without us," John frowned, throwing an apologetic look at Sherlock, who only shrugged and continued to clean up his work-space, already back to looking unbearably bored.

After that, it was all business. Bill paid Sherlock what he owed him-a surprisingly affordable cost considering the amount of work done-Samson and Bill got Collin on his feet enough to manage the brief walk to the curb, and Samson hailed a cab, threatening as usual to make someone other than him pay.

"Consider it compensation for waiting on your sorry arses for three hours!" John heard him say as the door shut behind them, leaving John and Sherlock alone in the parlor.

"Thanks for… for doing that for Bill," John offered lamely after a moment. "He really wanted one. And it really was amazing, what you did. Really impressive stuff."

"Thank you," Sherlock nodded, looking a tad uncomfortable himself.

"Sorry about Samson," John tried, though as desperate as he was to keep the conversation going as long as he could, he could feel it coming to an end. The realization probably shouldn't have been as upsetting as it was. "He can be a bit of a prat sometimes."

"I've dealt with worse," Sherlock smirked, and John grinned back at him, considering for a moment ways in which he could stay. He hadn't gotten his own tattoo yet. They didn't exactly _need_ him to accompany them back to the-

"Johnny!" Bill's voice managed to drift in through the crack in the door. True to form, John winced, though this time for an entirely different reason. "Cab's here! And I'm pretty sure Collin's gonna throw up!"

Right. What were mates for?

"I should go," John sighed, offering one last, sad smile at Sherlock before turning towards the exit.

"Wait. John," Sherlock called out and John's heart skipped a beat. The sound of his name in that voice had to right to sound as fantastic as it did. "Your tattoo. You said you wanted… something else."

John looked over his shoulder at him. "The words _Primum non Nocere,_" he said, dragging a finger over the left side of his chest, a few inches beneath his collarbone. "Right here."

Sherlock nodded. "Ah. Doctor. There's always something."

John nodded as well and smiled, trying not to be disappointed when, as he walked out the door and got into the cab, Sherlock didn't call him back one more time.

s


	2. Chapter 2

It was on a run the next morning that John heard the news.

"Are you serious?" John asked, still a bit out of breath from his morning run. Collin nodded, clutching his cup of coffee from the canteen like his life depended on it.

"Something to do with the flight being delayed," Collin explained, wincing when some minor motion apparently reminded him of what looked to be a massive hangover. "We're here for another half day at least."

John tried not to be too concerned that his first thought wasn't of more time spent on leave, but rather more possible time spent with a certain tattoo artist.

However, within seconds of the news, John found himself making his excuses to Collin and darting towards the shower. He made it to 221b barely forty minutes later.

Similar to the night before, John could hear the familiar sounds of the needle buzzing as he stepped through the door. Only this time, it was accompanied by the murmurs of quiet chatter. John hadn't considered the fact that Sherlock might have appointments to keep or clients he'd prefer to see. Suddenly, the whole spontaneous revisit seemed a bit too… spontaneous. What if Sherlock had just been doing his job the night before? What if John had just been drunk enough to think he'd imagined the tension, the glances?

What if Sherlock had been hoping he'd never have to see John again?

For a few moments, John debated turning right back around and leaving before he could make a fool of himself. But he'd never been one to run from danger, even-and sometimes especially-of this sort. He hadn't recently garnered the title Three Continents Watson by being a coward.

So, swallowing back his abrupt overabundance of nerves, John walked through the main area and to the back room where Sherlock had worked on Bill.

As expected, Sherlock was seated next to the same table, his equipment and ink lined up in the same organized fashion. A young man, probably a few years younger even than Sherlock, was lying on his stomach, the beginnings of a rather artistic rendering of some tribal art spanning the length of his back.

Sherlock didn't look up at first, wiping at a freshly drawn line between the kid's shoulder blades before dipping his needle in more ink. "Usually clients wait in the front room," Sherlock said matter-of-factly, the, "Get out and let me work," heavily implied. John felt himself flush.

"Sorry, I-" John stammered, taking a step back, but before he could properly retreat, Sherlock's head snapped up.

"John," Sherlock blinked, his face a perfect display of the surprise John had been afraid of. And even still, the sound of his name in that rich, rumbling voice sent a shiver down John's spine. Glad to know that hadn't just been the beers talking.

"I didn't realize you…" John tried to salvage his dignity when the silence stretched on long enough to be almost physically painful. He waved a hand awkwardly in front of his face as if that would somehow diffuse it quicker. "I probably should have, I don't know, called or something, I…" He cleared his throat, running that same hand along the back of his neck instead when it seemed to have the opposite effect. "I should probably-"

"We're closed." Sherlock said suddenly, face falling back into his usual mask of impassive boredom. John felt his already burning face grow a shade hotter, his stomach dropping.

"Right," he swallowed, taking a step back. "Right then. I'll just-"

Again, Sherlock cut him off, dismissively rolling his eyes. "Not _you_. Obviously." He threw John a look that seemed to perfectly convey the words, "Don't be obtuse." John couldn't really do much more than stare at him in confusion, and one that only grew when Sherlock put away his needle and stripped off his gloves.

"You," Sherlock directed at the boy on the table. "Get out. We're closed."

As expected, the boy sat up in his own stunned confusion, looking from Sherlock to John with steadily increasing disbelief. "You serious?"

"Implicitly," Sherlock frowned.

"But you're not done." The disbelief was quickly dissolving into anger, the boy grabbing his shirt off the desk with an overly dramatic amount of force.

"I am for today." Sherlock sighed. "You can come back tomorrow for the final touch ups."

The boy's scowl only deepened. "I already fucking paid you."

"If that's your only concern, the money is still on the counter where you left it." Sherlock shrugged, already packing up his inks and depositing the needle into a safety hazard box. "Take it and go."

The boy looked as if he couldn't decide whether to be offended or appreciative, finally deciding on storming out the door with a grumbled, "Arse." Though not before giving John an affronted once over and throwing his shirt over his naked torso. John couldn't help smirking when the boy failed to hide his wince at the contact of cotton over newly inked skin.

Apparently Sherlock had noticed as well, rolling his eyes again as soon as he heard the front door slam shut in the distance. "Idiot," Sherlock sighed, and John lost it.

"You didn't… You didn't have to do all that," John tried between bouts of what should have been embarrassing giggles. But when Sherlock joined in, chuckling warmly along with him, John was hard pressed to reel in the fresh wave of laughter.

"His choice of tattoo was both unimaginative and a waste of my time," Sherlock waved the notion away once his own laughter had finally died down. "It shouldn't take me more than twenty minutes to finish when he comes back."

"_If_ he comes back," John grinned.

"One never really knows, I suppose," Sherlock smirked. "You did, after all. I admit, I wasn't expecting you to."

John felt something in his chest warm pleasantly. "I wasn't expecting to get another half day of leave."

"And you decided to use it here."

"I did," John grinned, shoving his hands in his pocket. A weighted but amiable silence stretched between them until John cleared his throat, motioning towards the table. "So, what do you say? Still remember what I want?"

"Of course," Sherlock walked over to his supplies, gathering some new needles and filling a few cups with ink. "_Primum non Nocere._ Right over your heart. Preference of font?"

"You mean you can't tell just by looking at me?" John raised his eyebrows in feigned shock. Sherlock frowned.

"You've already surprised me twice, John. I figured it best not to tempt fate."

John chuckled softly, taking off his shirt and throwing it over the chair in the corner that Collin had passed out in the night before. John didn't miss the way Sherlock's eyes traveled over his half naked frame, muscles more prominent from boot camp and the daily work out regimes of the army. He'd never considered himself the most attractive man in the world, but he wasn't oblivious to his good looks either. For the first time, however, having such blatant focus on him almost made him self-conscious. Or perhaps it wasn't so much the focus itself as it was the person doing the focusing.

Sherlock looked even better in John's sobriety, dark curls falling messily across his forehead and grey-blue eyes practically shining as they raked over John's body. He was wearing another pair of black dress trousers and a fancy, button up shirt-this time in a deep purple-that stretched beautifully over his chest, two of the buttons actually straining against toned muscles of his own. Again, his sleeves were rolled to the elbows revealing the stretch of brilliantly elaborate tattoos. John thought he could look at them for hours and find something different every time.

Abruptly, he realized he desperately wanted to. He wanted to run a finger over the diagrams and long, swirling strings of words. He wanted to examine each stretch of ink until he knew everything there was to know about this beautiful mystery that was Sherlock Holmes. And not just what he couldn't see of Sherlock's arms, but the tattoo he apparently had on his back, and any other tattoos he might have elsewhere. John wanted to feel each one under his hand, wanted to kiss the spaces in between. He wanted to see what Sherlock's inked and naked body looked like spread out and quivering and coming completely undone.

John cleared his throat, sitting himself down on the table and willing the thoughts away. The last thing he wanted was to make the situation even more awkward by sporting an erection through it; he didn't even know for sure if Sherlock was interested besides. No. John was here for a tattoo, that was all. A tattoo and the benefit of a sexy tattoo artist's company. Yeah.

"So… Font, John?" Sherlock asked again, staring at John's chest as if imagining how and where the words would look best. John flushed. How long had he been just sitting there in silence like a blithering idiot? He closed his eyes, mortified at himself. He was so much more suave than this, wasn't he?

"I trust your judgment," John said at last, a thrill running through him as the sound of the needle filled the room.

Lightly, though far from hesitant, Sherlock ran gloved fingertips over the sensitive skin of John's chest, tracing the words that would soon be etched permanently over his heart. Part of John wanted to close his eyes, to just let himself feel those careful touches and drown in that eventual pain of the needle leaving its mark. But a stronger, more demanding part of him wanted to watch, to see Sherlock's nimble hands do what they did best, to admire the frame of his face as it inched closer to John's body. John swore he could feel Sherlock's breath ghosting just barely over his skin.

With the first bite of the needle, John felt something hot and sharp run through him, like a jolt of electricity or a sudden burst of adrenaline, only different, tangible, fierce. He couldn't hold back the soft gasp that whispered through his parted lips, instantly relieved when it seemed Sherlock was either too distracted to notice, or too quick to assume it was a reaction to the pain. Well… A different reaction.

Now, John closed his eyes, let the sharp sting of the needle hyper focus his thoughts and sing through his veins. He'd never really given much thought to pain, enjoyed the occasional roughness of a good shag or the bruises and scrapes of a hard training. But this. This was like a drug shot straight into his system, a fire that started from Sherlock's hands, to needle, to skin and traveled in waves all the way to the tips of his fingers, up his spine, before settling at the back of his neck in warm/cold, demanding shivers.

It took him an embarrassingly long time to realize Sherlock had asked him a question.

"Sorry?" John stammered, all too aware of how husky his voice sounded. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I'm sorry, what?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, needle still drawing deliciously painful lines, but didn't comment. Instead, he merely repeated, "The Latin. Seems a bit counterproductive for a soldier, don't you think?"

John licked his lips, smiling softly. _Primum non Nocere. First, do no harm._ "It's difficult sometimes, yeah. I'll give you that. But it's something I try my best to remind myself of when I can." John closed his eyes, focused on the feel of Sherlock's hands, on the bite of the needle, on each line of those words being forever etched into his skin. "I'm a doctor first, soldier second. Even in the middle of a war… where it can be the easiest to forget."

Sherlock hummed in response, a soft vibration that sounded almost like approval. John kept his eyes closed, his lips still tugged into a slight smile.

And then Sherlock made a line that tipped the balance from persistent sting to overwhelming stab of pure, white hot agony. It barely lasted a couple of seconds, but John was left dizzy with it, so much so that when Sherlock removed the needle to add fresh ink, John had no will to bite back the groan that rumbled past his throat and into the air between them.

Sherlock did notice this time, looking up at John just as his eyes fluttered back open, probably blown wide and slightly glazed. Sherlock blinked, looking first at John's eyes, then the tattoo, and back, his own gaze growing more and more knowing as John's face grew hotter.

"I see," Sherlock said at last, returning to his spot at John's side and wiping away a streak of ink and blood from just above his left nipple. The sensation of fabric accidentally grazing the hardened, sensitive bud was nearly too much. John cleared his throat, wondering just how many times he could humiliate himself in front of this man.

"Sorry, I'll just-" John tried, turning his head away, but Sherlock cut him off once again.

"No, it's…" Sherlock glanced up at him through a mess of dark curls and licked his lips. "It's fine."

John stared at him for a long while, well past when he'd started the needle up again and resumed that blissful combination of artistry and pain. Only this time-

"Oh fuck…" John gasped, grasping the edge of the table just to have something to hold on to. The pressure of the needle had shifted from noticeable ache to blatant stab, Sherlock digging in deep, drawing a whimper of pain/pleasure from between John's lips. It felt like he was being cut open, a knife stabbed in and drawn, and he felt himself getting hard, knew it was happening almost objectively, but the overwhelming torture of the needle was his only thought, his only focus. There was no room for embarrassment, no room for anything but deliciously agonizing sensation.

That is, until Sherlock spread his hand, fingers splayed, across John's abdomen, pressing lightly as if to steady himself.

John didn't know when he'd decided to do it, wasn't even fully aware of the action at all, but abruptly, one hand was tangled in Sherlock's hair, grip tightening just this side of what must have been uncomfortable.

Sherlock froze, the needle stopped, and everything became silent, weighted, tense. John was nearly panting, and when Sherlock glanced at him, John's hand shifting with the motion of his head, John couldn't stop the sharp exhale that escaped him.

The space between them was suddenly nonexistent, a combination of John pushing forward and Sherlock leaning in and whether either of them actually made the first move didn't matter. Because Sherlock's mouth was on his, teeth worrying at John's bottom lip, tongue tracing at the bruises left behind, and _fuck_.

John moaned into Sherlock's mouth, tangled his hand further into Sherlock's hair and used it to guide the kiss. He pulled at disheveled black curls just enough to elicit a gorgeous moan and a gasp, which John used, took the opportunity to plunge his tongue in past newly parted lips.

Everything next happened in a weird mesh of hyper-focus and blurred awareness. The distant sound of something clattering to the floor-oh, right, the needle-the feel of Sherlock-nnnghfuck-_biting _and _sucking _on his_ tongue,_ John's hands somehow finding their way onto the bare skin of Sherlock's chest-when had he even unbuttoned his shirt?-and then Sherlock was on top of him too, at one point had managed to climb onto the table with him, straddle him, and Jesus fucking _Christ_, if he wasn't turned on before…

It was abruptly like being set ablaze, every cell in John's body screaming out for more contact, more skin on skin, more hands and teeth and tongue and just _more_. He felt like a teenager again, like he could come right then and there and then be ready for another round in seconds, would never, ever get enough.

And then Sherlock broke away, latched onto John's neck with a fierce, bruising bite, and rolled his hips.

There was no power on earth that could have stopped the moan from crawling up John's throat at that, Sherlock's erection-mouthwateringly noticeable in his dress trousers-rubbing in just the right way against John's own. And when Sherlock stopped sucking bruises into his neck, panting against the wet and probably discolored skin for a moment, John swore he felt drunk again from just that one motion alone.

This time, when Sherlock spoke, a rumble of sound that literally vibrated against every inch they were pressed together, John noticed right away, tuned in like he was desperate for it. Well… among the other more obvious things he was desperate for.

"I take it you weren't expecting this turn of events when you came back in for your tattoo," Sherlock all but moaned, his voice low and rough and sinking into John's skin like warm sunlight. John rocked his hips up, let his head fall back with a breathy chuckle.

"What tattoo?" He grinned. Sherlock rolled his eyes at him, the sight simultaneously the most hilarious, gorgeous, and strangely erotic thing he'd ever seen. "Expected, no. But hoped for? Most definitely." John licked his lips, watched as Sherlock leaned back, one hand grazing over the wounded flesh of John's newly tattooed chest-a wonderfully painful reminder-and the other instantly going to work on John's zip. "Fuck, Sherlock…"

True to form, Sherlock's hands didn't shake a bit, deftly unbuttoning and then unzipping, popping open John's fly like he'd done it a million times before. John forced himself not to analyze that, instead choosing to be both impressed and so fucking turned on it was almost agonizing. Hell, his cock could probably cut glass, he was so hard at this point.

"I'd be lying," Sherlock mumbled, seemingly to himself, as his fingers danced along the edge of John's waistband, dipped beneath the elastic of his briefs. "If I said I hadn't had similar hopes." John was barely breathing, watching rapt and a little impatient as Sherlock slowly inched his hand into John's pants and finally, _finally_, wrapped those talented fingers around his cock.

John had to bite his lip to keep from embarrassing himself with whatever sound was threatening to crawl up his throat. But the feel of Sherlock slowly-_oh god, so slowly, too slowly, more, please, fuck, just a bit more-_stroking his length was all encompassing, a rhythm that was teasing and amused and not quite tight enough. It was all John could do to keep himself from wrapping his own hand around Sherlock's and showing him what he wanted, what he _needed_. So, as a necessary alternative, John chose to distract himself by returning the favor.

He wasn't nearly as steady as Sherlock, hands shaky and definitely ungraceful as John worked Sherlock's fly open as well. The angle was a bit weird-they were too pressed together, sprawled on top of each other in a way that left little room for much progress-but John wasn't inclined to change a damned thing. There was just enough space between them for John's hand to fit similarly into Sherlock's pants, and when hot, hard flesh was finally in his grip, Sherlock's mouth dropping open on a low whine, John knew they wouldn't be lasting much longer anyway.

"God, Sherlock," John moaned into Sherlock's hair, Sherlock's forehead nestled in the juncture between John's neck and shoulder. "You're so fucking gorgeous, you know that?" John could feel each hot, panting breath leave Sherlock's bruised lips and tickle at his collarbone. It was strangely intimate, like they weren't just borderline strangers desperately fucking in a tattoo shoppe in the middle of the day. Like they were lovers, like this was just the way Sherlock might have said welcome back after months of deployment.

John could feel Sherlock tensing, the rhythm of his hand on John's cock faltering a bit, and all at once, the realization slammed into him: John didn't want this to be it. He didn't want it to be a frantically exchanged hand job while he was on leave. He didn't want Sherlock to look back years from now and think of him as that good shag with that army bloke that one time. No. It was irrational and sudden and the timing was fucking awful, but John realized with a painful start that he wanted so much more than that.

He wanted to learn about Sherlock's tattoos and meet his mentor and watch him deduce what sort of ink a person wanted by the way they wore their hair. He wanted to know what Sherlock's family life was like, where he grew up, where he'd gone to school. He wanted to feel Sherlock's lips wrapped around his cock, his hands tangling in John's hair as he did the same for him, wanted to sink into Sherlock deep and tight and hot and take him apart bit by bit until he was completely wrecked and utterly spent and undeniably John's. The feeling was raw and intense and completely unrealistic considering, but as John felt the heat build at the base of his spine, spreading determined and fierce and much too soon, John knew he'd never wanted anything so much in his life.

"Are you close?" Sherlock breathed against his neck, and if he hadn't been already, the sound of that voice-like low thunder and crashing waves whispering in his ear-would have been enough to bring him there. John licked his lips.

"Oh _god_ yes," John closed his eyes, focusing on Sherlock's grip, thumb rubbing circles over the head of his prick, hand speeding up just so. "You first, god, please, Sherlock. I wanna see you come, please." And he meant it. Needed it. Couldn't remember ever needing something as much.

Whether it was just good timing or John's words, Sherlock obliged, biting down on John's shoulder with a muffled cry as he came, spilling hot over John's hand and onto their stomachs.

Sherlock's own hand all but stopped in the onslaught of what looked like a brilliant orgasm, but it didn't matter, the sight of him shuddering and moaning on top of him was all John needed. His own climax damn near shattered him, ripped through him and reduced him to little more than heat and spasms and reward chemicals. It wasn't until he felt himself twitch in discomfort that he realized Sherlock had continued to stroke him through it, his whole body still alight with aftershocks.

For a moment, they both just stayed there, sprawled on top of each other, breathing each other's breaths, a sticky mess caught between them. But then Sherlock finally sat back.

"Well, that was…" Sherlock paused, cleared his throat, and something in John broke a little. Because all those thoughts from before seemed outlandish, but they'd still seemed attainable. Until John got a proper look at the discomfort on Sherlock's face.

The awkwardness of the situation sunk in fast, a tension settling between them that only grew as Sherlock removed himself from John's lap and began tucking himself back into his trousers. John frowned, feeling the heat already gathering fiercely in his cheeks. He followed suit, grabbing his shirt off the chair and making himself look as presentable as possible with his abs still streaked and shiny with come.

"I'll be going then, shall I?" John mumbled, and if he sounded a bit bitter, then fine, because it's not like they'd made any sort of plans for this to happen, and it's not as though this was the first time he'd had a shag on leave go south, so-

"You don't-" Sherlock turned towards him suddenly, a look of apprehension crossing his features before settling back into the mask of indifference it seemed he preferred to wear. "I mean," he waved a hand between them, no longer looking at John. "You said so yourself. You have another half day of leave at best, so don't be moronic. You'll stay for the rest of your tattoo at least."

There was something about the tension in his back as he waited for John to respond, Sherlock's hand clenching and unclenching at his side, that made those broken pieces at the pit of John's stomach begin to settle back together. John chuckled softly, taking a seat back on the table.

"If you insist," He shrugged, grinning at the looks of surprise, then relief, then poorly feigned nonchalance that Sherlock responded with.

"Good," Sherlock settled himself back in his chair and grabbed the needle off the floor. "Because I might have a few… minor errors that will need fixing."

"I'm sorry, what?" John sat up a bit further and tilted his chin down, trying to get a good look at the deep lines of ink and blood on his chest. Sherlock cleared his throat, busying himself with reattaching a fresh needle to the mechanism.

"It's not my fault," he huffed. "You grabbed my hair when I was mid line." He glared at John, but there was a fire in his eyes very similar to amusement, maybe even fondness. He started up the new needle with a smirk. "Easily fixable… as long as you think you can control yourself."

"I'll do my best," John scoffed, rolling his eyes as Sherlock went back to work. The sting of the needle digging into already wounded skin still sent ripples of pain/pleasure down his spine, but it was more distant, like a reminder, or a promise.

Even without Sherlock's hand working magic on his cock, John was pleased to find he still wanted all those things, still felt some indescribable yearning to learn more about the artist currently marking his skin, leaving his impression behind forever. John wasn't the sort to make promises, especially with the unpredictability of the army, but as Sherlock finished, cleaned and bandaged him up, John found he couldn't bring himself to leave without at least saying something, offering something.

"I'm glad I came back," John said, kicking himself for how cheesy he sounded, but unsure what else to say.

Sherlock looked uncomfortable at first, but eventually, he smirked. "I was pleasantly surprised that you did."

"Well at least it was pleasantly," John grinned. "Just surprised though?" Sherlock rolled his eyes, but after a moment he was hard pressed to keep his own grin off his face.

"Among other things."

The silence lingered on for a bit, neither of them really sure what more could be said. The prospect of John leaving didn't seem too appealing to either of them, though. Which was precisely when a thought struck him.

"You know," John cleared his throat, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I have another tattoo I was thinking of getting." Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. "Maybe while I'm away, I can write you about it, give you my ideas, you can draw me some mock ups to go over. Then, when I come back, you can-"

"If you want me to write you, John," Sherlock cut him off. "An easier solution might be to simply ask." He took a step forward, easing into John's personal space like he was always meant to be there, like it had been built with an extra spot just for him. Tilting his head down just so, Sherlock captured John's lips with his own, a deep and unhurried kiss that left John a bit weak in the knees, though he'd be loath to admit it. When he broke away, Sherlock was smiling, a proper, soft smile that John wanted to keep all to himself if he could. "And if you want to see me again, you don't need the pretense of a fictitious tattoo to do so."

It took John a moment to find himself again after that, but when he did, he couldn't hold back the smile that wormed its way onto his face. "Duly noted," he chuckled, reaching a hand to the back of Sherlock's neck and dragging him down for another kiss, this one a bit more heated, a bit more desperate. When he finally pulled away again, took a step back, they both were panting.

"I look forward to your letters," Sherlock said almost matter-of-factly, though his still slightly labored breaths diminished the effects some.

"I'm glad I have someone to send them to," John smirked. "And someone to receive them from."

Another brief moment of silence, and then Sherlock looked away, though John swore he saw a bit of redness spreading across the artist's cheeks. "I also look forward to your return."

John shook his head, smiling softly. "So do I, Sherlock." More than anything, he didn't say. Because it was too rash and too much and John was nothing if not careful, but even so. Suddenly, all those things he wanted, all those fantasies and desires and possibilities, didn't seem so stupid anymore. Suddenly, he wasn't so afraid to want them.

"So do I."


End file.
